Increments
by icepixel
Summary: A first date in four parts. Fraser/Thatcher.


This takes place immediately after "Snow Day," which itself is a sequel to "This Gray Spirit Yearning" (both available via my profile).

* * *

><p><strong>I. Talking<strong>

She really didn't want Fraser to stop kissing her, but she thought that if he kept on doing it, she'd wind up dragging him to his office and throwing herself on top of him on that narrow cot he slept in. It seemed somehow undignified.

With effort, she pulled her mouth from his, forcing her arms to loosen their grip around his neck. He looked about as dazed by the kiss as she felt, now that there was oxygen reaching her brain.

She attempted to speak. "Fras—Benton. Ben?" He nodded his acceptance of the name. Dear God, she hadn't even known what he liked to be called. She'd memorized every detail of his case reports, trying to massage the events he recorded into something more palatable for her superiors in Ottawa, but had never thought to find out something so simple and so personal. She would have to do better.

"I think that we—that is, that I..." Well, she couldn't expect two kisses to cure her of her inability to get a complete sentence out when he was around, she supposed. That particular treatment was going to require a much longer-term application. "Perhaps we should take this in increments," she finally managed to get out.

He smiled at the term. "I'd like that," he admitted.

"Do you want to have dinner tomorrow?" A day could be considered taking things slowly, couldn't it? And tomorrow was Saturday, so in her anticipation she wouldn't be tempted to send Turnbull on some pointless, time-consuming errand and then spend the rest of the day holed up in her office with her deputy, very much _not_ working.

"Yes," he answered.

She left soon after they worked out the details. But before she did, she tilted her face up and kissed him again, a short but thorough kiss that left both of them a little breathless once more. As she walked from the consulate to her car, she looked through the window to see him slumped against the wall, a smile like she'd never seen before on his face. She didn't bother to keep a matching one from spreading across her own.

* * *

><p><strong>II. Dinner<strong>

He was worried, at first, that things would be unbearably awkward, both of them trying so hard to make this work that they wound up completely missing what they were aiming for, like overcompensating for the recoil from a rifle. And for a moment, when they sat at their table in a restaurant Ray Vecchio had often spoken of fondly, he thought that was exactly what was going to happen. After a shy exchange of hellos and his sincere compliment on her dress (it was dark blue and probably a little cold in this weather, since it lacked sleeves), he could not think of a thing to say. The only word that came to mind was her name.

"Meg."

He liked saying her name. With the short vowel and the velar plosive at the end, it could be forceful, hard and authoritative like her voice when she gave orders and expected obedience. But the "m" could also make it soft, intimate, like he'd seen her in unguarded moments. It suited her. He wondered again why she preferred it to "Margaret," and realized with a start that there was nothing preventing him from asking her; that in fact he could ask her any of the questions he'd stored up over the past year and a half, since he'd begun watching and listening and wondering about her. So he asked.

A tiny smile crossed her face. "Apparently the first time my grandmother saw me, she announced that Margaret was far too big a name for such a small person, and that I needed something shorter. It stuck."

After that, he had no trouble speaking. The exchange, simple as it was, seemed to convince both of them that they could talk to each other as people rather than just RCMP officers. And as they did, he found that the deduction he'd made from the evidence of her actions in the time they'd known each other was correct: despite their outward differences, under the surface they were more alike than not.

Like him, she'd joined the RCMP at nineteen, and it was the only career she'd ever known. She humored her parents by going to university for a year before she was old enough to apply for a place at Depot, but once she received her acceptance letter, she sat them down at the dinner table for an impassioned presentation—complete with charts, statistics, and examples drawn from her discussions with the Staff Sergeant in charge of recruitment in the Toronto area—on how joining the RCMP would allow her to make a difference in the world much more directly than the law degree she would likely have ended up with otherwise.

He agreed with her assessment. She would have made a fine barrister, he was sure, but he didn't think arguing cases in front of a jury would have put quite the same gleam in her eye he had seen when she was subtly outfoxing foreign diplomats or throwing eggs at crooked bookies.

She revealed other sides to herself as they continued their meal, facets he'd suspected existed but had never confirmed. Like him, she was fond of books, but though their tastes were similar, they were far from identical. She pegged him instantly for a Jack London fan, but while he'd grown up with the realism of the Victorian age, she preferred the introspection of the Modernists. She also liked the poetry of the Romantics and the seventeenth-century metaphysical schools.

(Rather boldly, he quoted the first four lines of "The Flea." Both of them blushed deeply enough to be seen even in the restaurant's dim lighting.)

She said with an embarrassed grin that on several occasions when he'd been unable to find Diefenbaker, "the wolf" had been in her office, his head resting on her lap and his eyes trained on her hands, in case she magically produced something edible. He'd noticed a few fine white hairs occasionally dotting the fabric of her darker skirts and pants; he'd suspected a cat or perhaps a rabbit at home rather than his own four-legged companion.

"Just because I give him something once in a while, that doesn't mean I approve of his wanton begging," she said, trying to look stern. The sparkle in her eyes betrayed her effort. "I want you to know that."

"Duly noted," he replied, not even bothering to hide his amusement.

It would be tempting to describe her as a whole other person in this context, but she wasn't. The Meg Thatcher in front of him was the person he knew existed under her all-encompassing professional shell, and he felt privileged to see more than just the glimpses working together afforded him.

Deep in conversation, they spent almost three hours lingering over their food.

When they were about to reach the point where dragging dessert out any longer would be impractical, he happened to glance over her shoulder. An older gentleman in a suit that was just a little too small for him strode by, and the light from the chandelier overhead just managed to illuminate the outline of a firearm stuck into his waistband. A Glock nine millimeter, Ben thought, freezing.

"What is it?" Meg asked, instantly noticing his changed demeanor.

"Gun," he murmured, inclining his head toward the man but not turning it. "He's heading for the kitchen."

Meg carefully placed her fork on the edge of her plate, pursing her lips.

"What do you think we should do?" he asked. He was loathe to break up their date, but a man wandering through a crowded restaurant with a handgun rarely meant anything but impending trouble.

"What we always do," she said, dropping her napkin on the table. "Interfere."

* * *

><p><strong>III. Dancing<strong>

They were quite late leaving the restaurant. First they followed the man with the gun in his waistband to the back of the restaurant, where they discovered a highly illegal gambling and money-laundering operation. Six broken chairs, fourteen shattered wineglasses, and several bruises later, the terrified restaurant manager had called the police while the two Mounties finished tying the criminals to the table with kitchen twine. Giving their statements to the officers who arrived had taken yet more time, and made it nearly midnight when they finished.

Once they were free to go, she asked if he would like some tea. "I still have some Red Rose from the last time I went home," she said, hoping he had as big a weakness for it as she did. As exhilarating as it had been to bust a gambling den, it wasn't quite the way she'd envisioned their first date ending.

"That sounds delicious," he said. Smiling shyly at each other, they began walking toward the L.

She realized, unlocking her door, that she wasn't at all prepared to have Benton Fraser in her apartment. Oh, it was tidy enough, and she certainly _wanted_ him there, but she hadn't quite done the mental gymnastics required to actually _picture_ him there, as opposed to her office, or on sentry duty outside the consulate, or in one of the many varied and strange places she'd seen him. She could imagine him locked in egg incubators and on the top of speeding trains, but not sitting at her kitchen table. What did that say about this relationship?

Thankfully, Fraser didn't seem fazed as he followed her into her apartment. She watched him take in the living room, which she had decorated in a style that, if it didn't exactly match the 1920s vintage of the building, at least didn't clash with it. Her living space was simple, though not nearly as spartan as his current quarters in the consulate. She wondered if it revealed anything about her to him, if he could read it like he did a crime scene.

"Here, let me take your coat," she said, opening the small closet next to the front door. They unbuttoned their heavy outer layers, and she hung them carefully on the hangers. "The kitchen's just through here." She led the way to the back of the apartment, and immediately set to filling the kettle. She'd had to search long and hard for an electric kettle in this coffee-drinking wasteland, and she was still rather proud of the acquisition.

Fraser peered at her refrigerator, and she saw him raise his eyebrows at the crayoned drawing stuck to it. "I assume this isn't your work?" he asked in that dry way that she could never be sure was meant to be joking or not.

She turned the kettle on and joined him at the refrigerator. "My neighbor's daughter," she said. "I watched her last weekend when her mother had to work, and she drew it for me. That's her"—she pointed to a small blonde stick figure—"and that's me." She moved her finger to the taller brunette. "Apparently we're in Canada." Kayla had drawn several evergreen trees beside the figures, and a reasonable approximation of the Canadian flag at the top of the paper.

Fraser smiled. "She might not have the hang of perspective yet, but she certainly knows her botany."

While they waited for the kettle to boil, they discussed the crime ring they'd broken up that night. From what the CPD officers had mentioned, it seemed that several members were wanted for extensive lists of illegal activities, from fraud to armed robbery. And had Fraser not happened to see the gun under Alonzo Giambalo's jacket, no one would have discovered them. She commended him on his keen eyesight.

"Thank you, ma—Meg," he said, substituting her name at the last minute and looking absolutely horrified about it.

Meg felt her own cheeks turning red. As his near-slip demonstrated, this was a conversation they could have had any day in her office at the consulate.

Maybe this hadn't been a good idea, she thought. Maybe they were simply as unsuited to dating as they were to a purely professional relationship. Perhaps she should simply give Fraser his tea, bid him goodnight, and on Monday morning request a transfer to anywhere the RCMP cared to send her.

But memories of their interrupted dinner refused to be run out just because of a little embarrassment. She recalled the appreciative way he'd looked at her when she arrived at the restaurant in a dress not really meant for a Chicago winter, but which set off her hair and accentuated her figure so nicely she couldn't resist. She remembered how he'd laughed at a story about Harry, her childhood dog, and the way his hand had felt in hers when he'd taken it, quite unexpectedly, on their way back from the restaurant. After all of that, she couldn't possibly go back to being just his superior officer, and she didn't _want_ to leave him behind.

Perhaps it was awkward, but it wasn't like she didn't have plenty of experience with awkward where Benton Fraser was concerned. She wasn't going to give up without even trying, she decided.

The kettle boiled just then, the loud click it made as it switched off cutting into her thoughts. She poured the tea, adding milk and sugar to both their cups, and in the silence that followed as they sipped the drink at her table, she considered the best way to put the evening back on the promising path it had started on. With some desperation, she picked the first topic that came to mind.

"How _do_ you dance without any music?" she asked, returning to the particular conversation that had been interrupted by their impromptu police work. "I'm not sure I've ever seen it done."

With a smile, Ben put down his cup. Standing, he took her hand and pulled her up along with him. She would eventually get used to this new freedom they had with each others' bodies, she supposed, but right now it made her shiver delightedly. "I'll show you," he said, placing his hand on her back and drawing her body against his.

He led her into a simple waltz that carefully avoided the table, chairs, and countertops. He didn't hum or whistle or count, as she'd half-expected, but his rhythm was perfectly steady, and Meg relaxed against him, for once willing to relinquish control of the situation. She rested her head against his shoulder, assured that things were definitely back in personal, rather than professional, territory. "I see why your parents liked this," she murmured against the collar of his shirt.

"I don't think I ever appreciated how much they must have enjoyed it until now," he admitted.

She glanced at him, just barely able to meet his gaze from her current position. "This is the first time you've done it?" He nodded. That was surprising. He'd mentioned it so fondly that she'd assumed he would've shared it with someone else by this point. Unless, of course, he... She felt her eyes go wide at the implications of her train of thought. "Are there, uh, other firsts I should know about?"

"Other firsts...?" he repeated, his brow furrowing. Thankfully, the light of understanding came into his eyes before she had to explain herself. She was blushing just thinking about it. "Ah, no. I don't think so," he said, his face also turning red.

She buried her face further in his shoulder. If there had been a convenient wall nearby, she would have banged her head against it.

He moved his hand along her back, slowly tracing a path from her shoulder blade down her spine, drawing the attention of all the skin his palm touched. Their brief, embarrassing conversation had increased her awareness of his body tenfold. Pressed up against him for the dance, she could feel the warm solidity of his presence from her shoulders to her thighs. His left palm was rough with callouses, but he held her hand as gently as he might a fragile glass ornament. His soft breaths tickled her short hair.

Their dancing had slowed almost to a standstill, she noticed. She really, really hoped that didn't mean he was getting ready to leave.

She raised her head and looked at him, gratified to find that he looked about as ready to jump out of his skin as she was. "Do you think we've gone through enough increments?" she whispered.

He kissed her, and she figured that was answer enough.

* * *

><p><strong>IV. Morning<strong>

He woke up because the light was wrong. In the consulate, the windows were on the right of his bed, while at the moment the sun was hitting his left side. Which, of course, meant he was somewhere other than the consulate—specifically, Meg Thatcher's apartment, and even more specifically, her bed.

The thought caused panic to rise in his throat, stirring his heart to a rhythm it was unaccustomed to. He was unsure of the etiquette in these kinds of situations, and people who would know always seemed strangely reluctant to discuss the matter. Should he leave now, while Meg continued to sleep? Should he attempt to make breakfast in her unfamiliar kitchen? Would it be presumptuous to use her shower?

He settled for staying where he was, observing her as the room gradually brightened. She lay on her stomach, facing him, one hand tucked under the pillow and the other flung toward the edge of the bed. Her hair, though very short, still managed to be unruly, sticking up in some places and lying flat in others. The sun highlighted the freckles which dotted her shoulders, perhaps evidence of the same recessive redhead gene which gave him a similar set. His cartographer's soul had longed to map them last night, but she had had other ideas, all of which were quite distracting. She wasn't afraid to ask for what she wanted in bed, although one request, which came out more like an order, had caused her to cringe, obviously mortified. She was terrified of acting in a manner that could in any way be construed as an abuse of her professional power, he knew, and if their relationship continued as he hoped it would, it was something that was going to come up again and need to be discussed. But last night, he'd merely kissed her and asked her to elaborate.

Just then, she stirred beside him, rolling onto her side and slowly opening her eyes. She didn't seem surprised or irritated to see him awake and still here, which settled some of the unease he'd harbored for the past several minutes. Blinking owlishly, but smiling, she said, "Good morning."

"Good morning," he replied automatically while he wondered what to say next. _Did__you__sleep__well?_ seemed ridiculous at best, disingenuous at worst.

She, however, seemed unaffected by the awkwardness that had taken hold of him. "I'm starving," she announced. "Do you like pancakes?" He nodded. "Good."

She sat up then, the sheet falling from her torso, and stretched her arms over her head, rolling her neck slightly from side to side as she worked out the night's lingering tension. The rising sun painted the planes and curves of her body a yellowy gold, and he stared at her—there was really no other word for it—trying to memorize the sight.

He nearly pulled her back to the bed when she finally stood up and reached for the pajama pants and RCMP T-shirt lying over the chair in the corner.

She looked at him apologetically as she slid the pants over her hips. "I'm afraid I don't have anything that will fit you," she said.

"That's fine," he said, and it was; he was no stranger to days spent in the same clothes while camping, hunting, or even chasing a suspect. He sat up then, feeling the sheet fall away, and was rather pleased to see her mouth drop open a fraction of a centimeter. It was reassuring that he wasn't the only one of them a bit rattled this morning.

"The bathroom's right outside the door if you need it," she said after a short pause. "I'll just...I'll be in the kitchen." With a lingering look that suggested she might be debating the merits of foregoing breakfast altogether, she vanished into the hallway.

When he emerged a few minutes later, wearing the pants and shirt he'd had on the night before, he found her mixing flour, milk, and other pancake ingredients in a large bowl. He asked if he could help, and she directed him around the kitchen to collect plates and glasses and pour coffee (her) and orange juice (him). It was appealingly domestic, thrillingly different after fifteen years living on his own. He pictured other Sundays, years of them, like this, and—oh, he was getting ahead of himself, of course, but his stomach fluttered at the thought nonetheless.

Meg carefully spooned batter into the frying pan. "Ben," she said when she was done, "Last night..." She couldn't seem to find the words she wanted, so she tried again. "I'm glad we...I'm glad you stayed."

"Me too." He saw no reason not to kiss her then.

Some time (minutes, days, months) later, she reluctantly pulled away. "The pancakes will burn," she said, trailing her fingertips down his chest before turning in his arms and sliding a spatula under the pancakes, flipping them to reveal undersides that were a perfect golden brown.

Between kisses, they somehow managed to get breakfast cooked and to the table. She had picked up the Sunday _Tribune_ from her doormat while he was getting dressed, and she dug into it with the same gusto as she did her meal. He glanced at the headlines, but was far more interested in which section she would head for first.

It turned out to be sports. He hadn't expected that. She caught his raised eyebrows, and a small grin sprang to her mouth. "I had much better things to do last night than watch the Leafs-Blackhawks game," she said, "but I'm dying to know the score."

Every time he thought he knew her, she managed to surprise him.

From her hissed _yes_, he deduced that the Maple Leafs had won the game. "Four to two," she said in answer to his unasked question. Folding the paper neatly, she set it back on the colorful pile at the far side of the table and returned to her breakfast. For a few minutes, they ate silently, simply happy to be sharing the morning.

Eventually, he spoke. "Did you have any plans for today?"

She shook her head. "Do you?"

He took her hand where it was resting on the table and threaded his fingers through hers. "I'm sure we can think of something."


End file.
